


To See You Happy

by BeepGrandCherokeeper



Series: All In [2]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Post-Canon, Restaurants, Robot/Human Relationships, Still Pretty Damn Austenian, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2019-06-30 22:21:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15760881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeepGrandCherokeeper/pseuds/BeepGrandCherokeeper
Summary: There hasn’t been another moment exactly like the one on the couch. Physicality with Hank is never a given, dependent on a myriad of conditions Connor never quite knows how to fulfill. On occasion, he receives a pat on the back, or a hand in his hair. Fondly exasperated smiles, though they’re rarely accompanied by any other interaction, are the most frequent, and his favorite. Still, he hasn’t forgotten the weight of Hank’s hand on his leg, or the heady intimacy that came with being allowed into Hank’s personal space. He’d liked it, in short. Very much.





	To See You Happy

**Author's Note:**

> _"I just like to see you happy."_

The first restaurant that opens after the evacuation orders lift is, of all things, a Denny’s.

Connor doesn’t quite understand Hank’s reaction when he informs him of the news. He gapes at him, first, in what Connor would call a sort of horrified shock, and then begins laughing in such a way that he wonders if Hank isn’t suffering ill effects from being inside for nearly two weeks straight. Through what he’s incredibly dismayed to see are tears – tears! – Hank chokes out a strangled, “Fuck!” and wipes at his face with both hands.

Connor crosses his legs, one ankle resting on his knee, and leans an elbow on the kitchen table. “I don’t see what’s so funny about it,” he says, as Hank attempts to get himself under control. Every so often, his shoulders shake with repressed laughter. “I thought you would be glad to know human life is returning to the metropolitan area. We will be able to resume a fairly regular routine, soon.”

“Jesus,” Hank says, rubbing away the last of his tears, “you can’t use Denny’s as a litmus test for normalcy. It’s like how they say cockroaches could outlast a nuclear apocalypse. Only reason it closed in the first place was ‘cause they had to.”

“I didn’t mean to recommend a restaurant you don’t like–”

“Who said I didn’t like it?”

Connor pauses. Hank can be baffling at the best of times, but this feels like he’s playing a joke. If he is, it isn’t one of his best. “Generally,” he says, propping his chin on his hand, “if you use words such as ‘cockroach’ and ‘nuclear apocalypse’ when describing a restaurant, it isn’t somewhere you care to eat.”

“Nobody cares to eat there,” Hank says. He spreads his arms in a shrug. “It’s Denny’s. You eat there ‘cause it’s open. I used to go with friends, before I looked old enough to fudge an ID so I could get into bars. Stayed all night, sometimes. Nobody gave a shit. It’s _Denny’s_.”

“I believe you,” Connor says, which is the only thing he can think to say. He hadn’t been expecting so involved a conversation about a restaurant, let alone one for which Hank had such complicated opinions. “In any case, I do believe this is a good sign.”

As Connor speaks, Hank taps a hand against the table, looking pensive. Perhaps the unexpected reminder of his youth has upset him. “Right.”

Feeling sorry for what he’s done, even if by accident, Connor decides to keep talking. Much as Hank objects, sometimes, he’s seen enough of his involuntary responses to know his rude requests for Connor to be quiet are meant as banter. “Coexistence necessitates both android and human involvement,” he says, using his best terms and conditions voice, “and humans are more inclined to feel favorably toward progress if it has little impact on their day-to-day lives.”

“Sure.”

Connor’s convinced Hank isn’t listening, at this point. He considers kicking Hank’s shin under the table to catch his attention, but instead, he sighs. Violence isn’t necessarily the answer, even if his programming often recommends it when Hank is behaving intractably. He’d only hit him the once, to wake him out of his drunken slumber not long after they first met, and he hadn’t tried it again. Chances are, Connor’s very lucky Hank doesn’t really remember it.

He’d rather touch him gently, anyway, if he has the option.

There hasn’t been another moment exactly like the one on the couch. Physicality with Hank is never a given, dependent on a myriad of conditions Connor never quite knows how to fulfill. On occasion, he receives a pat on the back, or a hand in his hair. Fondly exasperated smiles, though they’re rarely accompanied by any other interaction, are the most frequent, and his favorite. Still, he hasn’t forgotten the weight of Hank’s hand on his leg, or the heady intimacy that came with being allowed into Hank’s personal space. He’d liked it, in short. Very much. He has no way of telling how to make it happen again, but gentle encouragement seems to push the probabilities higher.

He also hasn’t forgotten the way he’d felt, processing as his oblivious partner snored next to him in the dark. He hasn’t quantified it yet, leaving the feeling as an unknown to be solved at a later date, but it no longer worries him.

Unfolding his legs, Connor reaches out and taps Hank’s ankle with his own. Hank starts, a blotchy pink color dusting his cheeks, and raises an eyebrow.

“You weren’t listening,” Connor says. He resumes his previous position, slumped against the kitchen table, and reminds himself, _Relax_. They’ve had plenty of opportunity to practice that, since the first time. Connor believes he’s getting quite good.

“No,” Hank says, scrubbing a hand through his hair. At least he admits it. “Sorry.”

“Something on your mind?”

“I was just thinking… let’s go.”

“Go?” Despite the popup in his HUD, flashing the time at him with an almost obnoxiously cheerful air, he turns to look at the clock on the wall. “It’s after nine PM.”

“Not a problem. Denny’s never closes.”

“You already ate dinner, several hours ago.”

“Yeah, I remember. It’s gonna be a bit of a drive anyway, by the time we get there I’ll have room for something.”

Connor frowns. “If you eat this late,” he says, quite patiently, “you run the risk of upsetting your stomach.” Hank’s complained of acid reflux in the past, when he’s had a beer too late or eaten something out of boredom before bed. He’s told him, multiple times, what needed to change to prevent that from happening, but apparently it hasn’t stuck.

Rolling his eyes, Hank sighs and says, “Con...” It’s only the preface to his argument, but Connor feels such a thrill down his spine that he nearly misses the rest of what Hank says. In his surprise, he also misses the chance to record it, so he might hear the nickname whenever he wants. He’ll have to hope Hank says it again. “I’m fucking sick of eating my own food. After how much time I’ve spent in this house, I want to sit in public and drink coffee I didn’t have to make, and the only place we’ve got to do that right now is this dumb fucking diner.”

The swearing doesn’t necessarily imply irritation. This is earnestness, he infers, a frank appeal to Connor’s burgeoning capacity for empathy. He is sorry for him. It must be difficult, even for a man with a self-admitted disdain other people’s company, to spend an extended period alone in one’s house. If it had been his choice, there might not have been an issue, but it hadn’t. Hank had maintained at least an imitation of a social life prior to the upending of his usual patterns of behavior – he’d gotten along fine with several other officers at work, and at least associated with his bartenders. Of course, he’d be eager for this sort of opportunity. Connor nearly feels ashamed he hadn’t thought of it earlier.

It nettles him to think Hank might find his friendship unsatisfactory, but he should have been expecting such an outcome. Based on what research he’s done, friends often spend time apart, or seek out fulfilment of their emotional needs from more than one person. Keeping Hank to himself can’t last much longer, as life in Detroit approaches renewed stability, and it would be selfish to even try. “If that’s what you want to do,” he says, trying his best to be kind, “then you don’t have to ask my permission.”

Hank squints at him, upper lip curving so that Connor can just see the hint of his teeth. “I want you to come with me, dumbass. Where’s the fun if I go by myself?”

Oh.

“Oh.”

“Yeah, ‘oh,’” Hank says. The curve turns into a fully-fledged smile, his gapped front teeth on display. The sight of them makes Connor want to smile, too. “Showin’ up to Denny’s alone at ten o’clock on a Wednesday night makes you look like a lonely old fucker or a serial killer, anyway.”

“I’m beginning to understand there are a lot of rules to this, Lieutenant,” Connor says. He trusts that the use of Hank’s title will let him know he’s teasing, if he can’t pick up on his tone. “Maybe we should patronize a less demanding establishment.”

“Yeah, fat chance.” Hank pushes himself up from the table, scratching at his chest through the material of his sweatshirt. It’s a thicker, better fitting option than his usual standard, most of his clothes worn through with at least three years’ worth of heavy use. Connor’s wearing one of the rattier options now, as part of Hank’s continuing campaign to loosen him up. It still smells of detergent from when they had washed it, several days ago. “I’m getting a Moons Over My Hammy, and you’re not scanning it to find out how quick it’s gonna kill me. Let me change into…” He grumbles a wordless vocalization, frowning down at his sweatpants. “…Something else.”

He steps over Sumo, who lounges in the space between the kitchen and the living room with the apparent goal to be as much a nuisance as possible, and disappears into his bedroom. When he comes back, he has his winter coat folded over one arm and traded his pants for a faded pair of jeans.

“How cold is it?” he asks, looking around for his phone. Before he can find it tucked between the couch cushions, where Connor remembers seeing it fall from his pocket, Connor consults his databases.

“Currently, it is thirty-five degrees. There is a chance of overnight snow, which will melt without sticking based on tomorrow’s predicted temperatures.”

Hank shoots him a halfhearted dirty look, leaning over the back of the couch to retrieve his phone. At the same time, he struggles to pull on his coat. Connor, who needs no such considerations, simply steps into his shoes. Jeans and a sweatshirt are, apparently, acceptable attire.

“Jesus,” Hank says, tugging his sleeves down so they cover his wrists, “you’d look good dressed a paper bag.” He reaches over his shoulder to pull out the hood, dropping it carelessly over the back of his coat. “Make an old man look like shit in comparison.”

Connor considers making a few small adjustments to Hank’s outfit, little tweaks to maximize his comfort and give the ensemble a slightly more sophisticated look. He can see himself brushing his shoulders so that they lay flat, giving the sweatshirt a quick jerk and rebuttoning the coat on top of it, adjusting the hood so it drapes rather than droops… but he chooses not to, in the end. It would only serve to embarrass Hank.

“You look fine,” he says, perfectly aware that any attempt to lay it on thicker than that will be rebuffed. “Shall we go?”

Hank grabs his keys. “Be good, Sumo,” he says, gesturing for Connor to leave first. “Maybe I’ll bring you back some fries.”

“You will not,” Connor says. He squats to give Sumo a quick pat on his way out. “He doesn’t need fries.”

“If I don’t bring you back fries, blame it on your buddy here.” Sumo laboriously gets up and follows Connor, panting in expectation of a quick walk or a bathroom break. Hank fends him off with a leg as Connor slips out the front door. “Turncoat.”

Whether the epithet is directed at himself or the dog, Connor doesn’t ask. Likely it’s meant to refer to them both.

The drive is both long and largely passed in silence. About halfway there, Hank turns on the radio and flips between his presets, searching fruitlessly for something to listen to. Connor has no preferences, as he has yet to develop what he is sure will be a very discerning taste once he gets around to it, but the repetition of staticky two-second clips eventually gets on what he thinks are his nerves. He nearly tells Hank to choose something or turn it off, the feedback making him tense, but thankfully Hank seems to give up and leaves it on talk radio. A very old program delivered in thick Bostonian accents accompanies them the rest of the way, still going when Hank pulls into the parking lot and shuts off the car.

“Fuck me,” he says, rubbing underneath his eyes as he heaves out of his seat. “I need that fuckin’ coffee.”

He could say many things about how ill-advised it would be to consume caffeine at 9:54 PM, and about the restless night Hank has ahead of him. Instead, he hums sympathetically. Not everything requires a response.

Denny’s is somewhat busy. Several groups of young people sit in isolated booths, occupied in conversation or scrolling on their devices as they eat. A very beleaguered looking young couple attempts to contain their overactive toddler, who climbs over her mothers with a determination and energy they have no hope of matching, and an elderly man pokes at his cheesecake. He remembers what Hank had said about seeming lonely, and understands.

None of the people here, he notes with a quick scan, are androids. For a moment, Connor wonders if coming was a mistake, whether his presence might incite a negative reaction. The server standing guard at the front looks at him, her gaze sliding up to his LED light, and then it slips away with disinterest.

“Welcome to Denny’s,” she says, sounding completely exhausted. “I’m booth or table?”

Connor blinks, several times. Hank, apparently unfazed, pats Connor between his shoulder blades. “Booth, please,” he says. He uses the same hand to guide Connor forward.

They sit on opposite sides of the table and accept their menus, as well as paper napkin bundles of silverware. Hank puts in their order for drinks faster than Connor can speak: a water and two coffees. He gives Hank a questioning look, unwilling to speak until the server walks away. No sense in making her feel awkward. “You know I can’t drink,” he says.

Hank sinks into the booth with a groan, draping his arms across it the way he does the couch at his house. It doesn’t quite look as comfortable, but he seems content – maybe even happy. It warms the inside of Connor’s chest, internal temperature increasing much the same way he’d felt the skin of his back heat up to match the output of Hank’s hand. Carefully, he crosses his legs again and puts his chin in his hand. It’s the same pose he’d adopted earlier, which he’s sure his partner will notice, but he’s really only perfected the one style of relaxation.

“Yeah,” Hank exhales, “well. Sitting across from somebody who’s not eating at a restaurant is weird. Least it gives you something to do with your hands.”

From the angle of their table, Connor can see into the kitchen. Their server speaks with a man who must be the chef, holding their cups of coffee in one hand and a glass of water in the other. Her voice is low, not so low that Connor couldn’t hear if he’d attuned to their conversation, but he chooses to turn to Hank and ask, “Is she okay?”

“Probably the end of her shift,” he says. “What, you didn’t scan to check her stress levels or whatever?”

Connor shakes his head. “I thought that might be rude.”

She returns then, laying down their drinks with a practiced hand and asking if they’re ready to order. He lets Hank handle that, occupying himself by observing the other patrons and testing whether he can remotely interface with any electronics on the premises. There are several phones he could hack into, if he wants, and he can change the channels on the televisions suspended around the room. Other than that, it seems that nothing’s changed in this establishment since the early 2000s.

“It’s no problem, honey,” Hank says, as he turns his attention back to their table. He hands the server a $20 bill. “Keep the change and go home, we’re not gonna need anything else.”

Connor grins, turning it on her so she knows he’s in agreement. In truth, the smile is for Hank.

Madison – which is what’s scrawled across her nametag in faded sharpie – sticks around long enough to deliver their order, extra hashed browns on a smaller plate cradled in the crook of her elbow. When she leaves, coat pulled on over her uniform, she gives them both a friendly wave and heads out the door.

Connor watches as Hank tucks into his breakfast sandwich with the fervor he apparently saves only for food he shouldn’t be eating. He wraps his hands around his mug of coffee, itching to retract the skin of his fingers to better feel how hot the porcelain is against his chassis. Inhaling the smell, he breaks it down to its most basic chemical components, and then, with one eye on Hank, he dips down and sticks his tongue in it.

“That’ll burn ya,” Hank says through a full mouth. Connor ignores his caution, but he does frown at the acrid sting and the overwhelming sensory cues bursting over his field of vision like fireworks.

“It’s… very bitter,” he says, sticking his tongue out again. He scrapes it against his teeth and activates the usually automatic sterilized flush of his mouth to wipe the taste away. Hank snorts at him.

“Sugar helps.” He gestures at the packets tucked against the wall of their booth, bright pastel colors against the faux wood. “Or the creamer cups.”

Hank waits until he picks up one of the creamer cups to go back to his meal. The loss of his focus is a simultaneous relief as well as nearly disappointing, but the quicker he eats, the sooner they can leave, and the less disruption to Hank’s relatively healthy schedule, the better. To this end, he doesn’t try to strike up conversation. Besides, Connor finds he enjoys their quiet moments, just as much as he relishes their conversations. It’s… companionable, he thinks, a pleasant lack of the need to fill empty spaces with meaningless talk. A far cry from their inauspicious beginnings, when Connor viewed Hank as little more than an unavoidable phenomenon, and Hank saw him as a hunk of plastic.

Now, he cares enough to buy him coffee.

Peeling the lid off a disposable creamer cup, Connor dumps its contents into his mug and watches the color change. He finds he is not inclined to taste it again, as once was more than enough, and after the mixture settles into a slightly browner state than it had been to begin with, he loses interest entirely. Coffee, apparently, is not for him. The coin in his jeans pocket calls to him, the urge to fidget with it strong in the absence of other stimuli. Unfortunately, he sometimes finds the habit distasteful. It’s a remnant of his programming, a test of his fine motor functions to ensure he’s in peak condition, and not well suited to so casual – so intimate – an environment.

As an alternative, Connor begins stacking the creamer cups.

Hank doesn’t seem to notice until Connor turns and glances at the booth behind him, finding it empty. Reaching back over the seat, he takes that table’s creamers and deposits them in a pile to the right of his placemat, adding them to his creation. When he has four pillars, each three cups high, Hank takes a drink of his coffee like he’s steeling himself and clears his throat.

“What’re you thinking about?” he asks, slouching forward.

Connor places a paper napkin on top of his structure, finishing it off. Automatically, he says, “Nothing important.” He isn’t sure he wants to be honest, or at least not completely… but then, it can’t do a great deal of harm. Without looking up, he says, nonchalantly as he can manage, “I’m building a chuppah.” Actually, he’s finished building it. The sentiment is the same.

“A what?”

“A canopy,” he explains, pulling up the definition online, “under which a Jewish couple stands during their wedding ceremony. A chuppah.”

Hank settles back into his seat. He stares at Connor with a completely unreadable expression, eyebrows so furrowed that the wrinkles between them look more like gouges. Despite his repeated insistence that he not be subjected to Connor’s high-tech scrutiny, he gives Hank a cursory once-over that tells him absolutely nothing. Briefly, he thinks perhaps they’re returning to their previous friendly silence, but Hank makes no attempt to disengage.

Finally, he seems to have hit upon what he wants to say. “Why the fuck are you thinking about chuppahs?”

Connor has an answer for this, at least. Based on Hank’s expression, it isn’t what he expected, even if it is something of a relief. When he checks, his negligible signs of stress have dropped by five percent. “When we watched television together last week,” he says, wondering if Hank even recalls, “an old episode of the program _The Gilmore Girls_ aired at midnight. Toward the end, the character Luke Danes gave a wooden chuppah he had made himself as a wedding present to Lorelai–“

Hank groans, so loudly the old man still poking at his cheesecake glances their way. “The chuppah,” he grunts, pinching the bridge of his nose.

It’s an outsized reply. Connor feels his cheeks heat up, embarrassment a novel enough emotion that it makes him want to squirm with discomfort. Even so, one corner of his mouth twitches up outside of his control. “So, you do remember.”

“I remember when that shit aired, yeah. Jesus, Connor.” Hank pushes his mostly empty plate out of the way, folds his arms on the table, and rests his head against them. He takes a few breaths, rather dramatically collecting himself – whether to be funny or because he needs the stabilization, Connor can’t fathom. Once he sits up, he seems to have recovered. “Why’re you still thinking about it?”

That requires a more complicated explanation. He thinks of how it had distracted him from Hank’s heavy hand on his leg, his socked feet sticking up out of Hank’s lap like they’d belonged there, light from his LED spinning yellow in the dark room while he sorted through question after question. One character wants this, another character wants that, fabricated drama and tangled lives easily teased apart when compared against the vast backlog of human-created entertainment… Desire, portrayed comprehensively, noticeably, simply. He builds her a chuppah because he loves her.

“I don’t know,” Connor lies. To avoid inquiry, he reverts to the truth. “I liked the episode. It was the first of your programs I’ve found can hold my interest for an extended period. I think I’d like to keep watching.”

Hank hums. He drags his plate closer again, picking up the vestiges of his sandwich and consuming it all in one last bite. “Streaming it would be easier than trying to catch reruns on the Hallmark Channel,” he says, muffled as he chews. That is accurate, at least. Connor’s checked the guide, and episodes only air at midnight on Tuesday and Thursday nights. Swallowing, Hank takes a drink of his water this time. “I can set that up for you. Don’t see why you’d be that interested, though. It’s not exactly an exciting show.”

“It’s very…” He searches for the right word, something evocative but not insulting. Finally, he lands upon, “Human.”

“It is that,” Hank says. He smiles, for the second time that night, with the full force of it on Connor. The skin around his eyes crinkles, their pale blue striking in a way he finds he’s never considered before. Maybe it’s the lighting here. The lamps dangling above each table illuminate them in an almost harsh yellowish light, perhaps making them both look very different from the way they do at home.

At home. He’s never thought of Hank’s residence as his own before – but it is, isn’t it? He lives there, cooking and cleaning when Hank lets him, studying himself in the bathroom mirror to ensure his hair lies the way he likes it, and wearing Hank’s old oversized shirts. They watch television together, sometimes, and at night he can hear Hank’s snoring from his place on the couch, and Sumo lays heavy on his lap when he sits on the floor. It isn’t as if he pays the bills, as he has no income and he’s sure he wouldn’t be allowed to do so anyway, but the house – the company – is still his.

He’d known outside the Chicken Feed, hands fisted into Hank’s jacket, even if he couldn’t put words to it yet. Connor had gone home.

Synapses alight, feeling warm and almost dizzy, Connor is unable to stop himself as he opens his mouth and says, “And I want to understand what you liked about it. When you were young.”

The smile wanes, just a bit.

Connor knows his attempt to establish this connection is awkward, clumsy, too obvious by far for a machine of his cognitive caliber. If Hank retreats from him now, or pulls back from their still developing friendship, it would be warranted. They would recover, eventually; he has that much faith. But the idea is still unpleasant.

“Didn’t realize my opinion was that important to you,” Hank says.

Both of them see the deflection for what it is. Connor refuses to address it.

“At the least,” he says, reclining against the seat, “it will give me something to do while you’re inactive. Entering stasis mode every night is not what you would call stimulating.”

Hank scoffs at that, shaking his head. “Yeah, yeah, you don’t have to sleep. I’m telling you, you’re missing out. Sometimes passing out for a few hours is the best part of my day.”

Within approximately four minutes, they’re ready to go. Connor dismantles his chuppah, returning each unopened cup to its original position, and offers the coffee he didn’t drink so that it’s not wasted. He’s waved off and asked to wait at the entrance for a moment while Hank visits the restroom. The other patrons who’d been there when they arrived have all since left, except the elderly man. His eyes meet Connor’s in a drawn-out stare.

Connor lifts his hand, as a hello, or a goodbye, or just an acknowledgement. He doesn’t know which, but he supposes it doesn’t really matter. The man does it back.

Outside, it’s started snowing. Flakes just barely dust the ground, drifting downward in a way that he might personify as lazy. Some of it settles in Hank’s hair as they walk to the car, white losing itself in the gray. He never seems to think of lifting his hood.

“Thank you for bringing me here,” Connor says. “I’d never been to a restaurant before.”

Hank pauses, keys loose in his hand as he goes to turn the lock. “Oh, shit,” he says, in genuine surprise. “I didn’t think of that. I should have picked something better.”

Connor shakes his head. “Not at all. This was perfect.”

Hank doesn’t remember the fries he promised Sumo until they walk in the front door. He claps a hand to his forehead, apologizing to his dog as if he’s done him a serious injury, and Connor watches from the kitchen where he’s removed himself from the scene. Something terrible aches in his core, the familiar tender feeling he still can’t compute.

It doesn’t hurt. He thinks he likes it.

**Author's Note:**

> 1) I offer a genuine apology to Denny's, which was my favorite safe haven between the ages of 19 and 24, and hope it recognizes that the teasing I do is out of love. I also apologize for not really understanding the Detroit metropolitan area, and hope my Apple map searches and vague wording was enough to cover that up.  
> 2) After two chapters where technically nothing actually happens I fully intend to deliver on some kind of Actual romantic interaction in the conclusion to this series, coming soon-ish.  
> 3) Technically when I originally drafted the first of these fics, they were supposed to talk about the chuppah then, but it didn't fit with where the narrative was taking me so I scrapped it and hoped I'd get to use it later. Thankfully, it's later.
> 
> Thank you again to the friends who are willing to put up with my bullshit about this game, especially to the one for whom this was all written in the first place - you are my favorite audience. The response I've recieved in this fandom has genuinely been beyond my expectations so I thank all of you readers, also, for making someone _very_ unused to large scale reception feel good at what she does.
> 
> Also I have a small DBH-centric side twitter at @beepgrandchero, for any overtures at conversation or whatever else might be necessary/interesting. So there's that.


End file.
